When I was a young’n, I had a friend named Mariah that lived down the street from me. I quite liked Mariah; she was interesting and knew people who were older than us (we were six).
One thing I didn’t like about Mariah was her choice of play. She always wanted to play Barbies. Now don’t get me wrong, Barbies were alright, but I had to be in the proper mood. And I just wasn’t in the proper mood all the time. So one day, when Mariah came over to play, Barbies in tow, I made a desperate decision. I was just going to have to trick her into playing something else.
“Where are your Barbies?” She asked with a rosy six-year-old smile.
“In my room…” I replied hesitantly.
“Well, let’s go get them!”
“We can’t.”
She looked puzzled. “Why not?”
“Because…” My next words should be of no surprise. “There are a bunch of naked men in my room.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. They needed somewhere to stay. So we can’t go in my room, because that would be gross.”
Hands on her hips, Mariah observed me. “I don’t believe you.”
The six-year-old equivalent of crap flew through my brain. “It’s true!”
And of course, she decided to find out for herself. Putting her Box-o-Barbies down, she shuffled through my house to my room, and slowly opened the door as I continued to plead with her. And as the door swung to reveal my room, there were… no naked men.
She raised her eyebrow at me. “I thought you said there were naked men.”
“I guess they left.”
“Well, that means that we can play Barbies!”
“Yeah.” With a defeated sigh, I submitted to yet another Barbie and Ken romance.
Author’s note: I was telling this to the other people on the debate bus this last weekend, and the first comment I got was, “So you were always a perv?”
Yeah. I guess so.
I’m just glad I got out of there in time.